


The Sweet Spot

by picturestoproveit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, F/M, Infidelity, One Shot, PWP, Swap!lock, The Sign of Three AU, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturestoproveit/pseuds/picturestoproveit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Molly's hen night, and her man-of-honour may have miscalculated a few things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweet Spot

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for the March "Ladies of Sherlock" Swaplock challenge. 
> 
> The opening dialogue is directly lifted from The Sign of Three, and all the credit goes to Steve Thompson, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat. Please don't sue me, gentlemen. I have nothing of value.

Dr. Molly Hooper slumped back in her chair, barely able to contain her giggles.

“…Mmm…am I important?” slurred the man sitting across from her. Molly shot her former flatmate a sloppy grin.  “Hmm, to some people, “ she murmured lazily. She sank her body further into the warm, familiar plaid cushions as she watched Sherlock Holmes in blurry-eyed amusement.        

“Well, do ‘ _people_ ’ like me?” Sherlock continued comically. The yellow post-it note that bore his name fluttered on his forehead with every sloppy hand gesture he executed. Molly snorted gently and tried to hide her smile behind her hand.

“Err…no they don’t, “ she responded smugly. “You tend to rub them up the wrong way.” She propped her drooping head up with her palm and gazed drunkenly across the sitting room as the world’s only consulting detective struggled to decipher what she considered to be the world’s simplest riddle.

“Okay…” Sherlock said, slumping back into his leather chair, confusion swimming across his features. Suddenly, he lurched forward, triumph glittering in his unfocused eyes. “Am I the current king of England?” he asked with determination.

Molly finally lost it. “ _Are you…?”_ she gasped through peals of laughter. “You know we don’t actually _have_ a king, don’t you?”

Sherlock shot her his most puppyish look. “Don’t we?” he asked, pressing his forearms to his knees in an attempt to keep his torso off his lap.

“No,” Molly answered wryly, arching her brow and shaking her head in merriment. Sherlock just shrugged and lazed back into the chair, swirling his whiskey glass before taking a long sip. “Your go, “ he murmured, his head bobbing slightly under the weight of all the alcohol he had consumed.

Molly straightened her back and grabbed her drink, downing half the glass in one swig. She hissed softly and scrunched her face before replacing the tumbler on the table and scooting herself to the edge of the armchair.

Clearly, the alcohol had taken its toll on her depth perception, as Molly suddenly felt herself sliding forward. Her hand shot out and caught Sherlock’s right knee just as her own knees hit the ground with a resounding _thunk._

Both Molly and Sherlock stared at her hand for a moment, her dainty engagement ring glittering in the low light of 221B Baker Street.

Molly shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she slurred, the first to break the suddenly tense silence. Sherlock made a non-committal noise and shrugged as well, turning his focus to the amber-colored liquid in his glass as he took another sip.

Molly remained on floor, settled between Sherlock’s legs, her hand still resting on his knee. “Ammm I a woman?” she murmured, gazing up at him through her lashes. Sherlock continued to stare into his drink, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Yes,” he answered quietly. Molly drew in a shaky breath and rose up on her knees carefully, moving her hand up Sherlock’s leg as she did so. “Am I…pretty?” she asked lightly, her fingers dragging softly up the inseam of Sherlock’s trousers.

She felt the muscles in his thigh clench beneath her touch as she pressed her palm firmly against the juncture of his thigh and groin. Sherlock tried his best to stifle a groan, but in his current state of inebriation ( _and arousal_ , Molly noted, staring hungrily at his rapidly tenting trousers), he wasn’t quite able to manage the task.

He drew in a shaky breath and slowly leaned down, until his face was just above hers. “Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models,” he murmured sleepily, focusing his unsteady gaze on her mouth.

“Yeah, but am I a pretty lady? “ she whispered, her head swimming with lust and alcohol, the floor beginning to tilt and sway beneath her knees.

The tiny, plaintive voice of sober Molly pleaded with her to stop and think about what she was about to do, but her current level of intoxication, coupled with the feel of Sherlock’s warm breath on her face enabled her to squelch her conscience in a most impressive manner.

Molly leaned forward and captured Sherlock’s mouth with her own, an act that she (now that she was finally being honest with herself) had longed to commit for years.

Sherlock froze for a moment before tentatively moving his lips against hers. A moan escaped from Molly’s partially open mouth, and Sherlock responded in kind, cupping the back of her neck and sliding his tongue into her mouth, tangling it with hers. The kiss was clumsy. It was sloppy. It was graceless.

In short, it was perfection.

Molly raised both her hands and clutched at his face, pulling him off-balance and greedily claiming his mouth, over and over again, until the need to breathe became too much. With a truly titanic effort, she pulled away from Sherlock’s gorgeous face and took several frantic gulps of air, her heart thundering and her mind racing against the foggy haze of her own drunkenness.

Sherlock stared at her, his blue eyes wild with a mixture of emotions. “Molly,” he slurred as she placed both hands on his chest and pushed him back against the cushion of the chair.  “Molly…you can’t…you shhouldn’t….” he weakly protested, as Molly began running her nails over his chest, through the silky fabric of his dress shirt.

“Shhhhhh…” she whispered drunkenly, raking her fingers lower and lower until she was tracing the clothed outline of his rather impressive erection.

Sherlock gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. “This…. _thissss…._ is all John’s fault, “ he hissed. Molly tore her eyes away from his groin and stared up at his flushed face in amusement.  “John?” she asked, unable to control the giggle that escaped from her throat.  “What in bloody hell does John Watson have to do with me touching your cock?” she continued saucily, sliding her palm up and down the aforementioned appendage firmly.

Sherlock groaned and shifted his hips, pressing his pelvis towards her hand desperately. “He was ‘sposed to…ah… _calculateourproper_ alcohol ah- innntake so we wouldn’t… _Christ Molly…._ so we wouldn’t get so…so…” he panted urgently, waving his hand as he struggled to string together a coherent sentence.

“Plastered?” Molly interjected helpfully.  Sherlock nodded, and then writhed in his seat as Molly leaned down and pressed her mouth against the head of his prick, her breath hot and her tongue wet and palpable through the thin layers of his trousers and pants.

“He was supposed to…oh…god…keep us in the sweet spot…” Sherlock continued, his words slurred and strangled. Molly lifted her face from his lap and reached sloppily for his buckle. “Well, Sherlock, he _is_ a pathologist, “ she giggled, tugging the belt loose and sliding it slowly through the loops of his pants. “He’s not used to working on warm bodies.” She reached for his button, her fingers clumsy, and eventually popped it open after several tries. “Besides, he’s been in love with you forever,” she murmured, watching Sherlock’s face closely as she slowly lowered his zip. “Maybe he was exacting a bit of revenge?” she smirked.

Sherlock tipped his head back against the leather upholstery and groaned again. “Ah…he’s gone, too,” he mumbled quietly. Molly froze, furrowing her brow. “What do you mean?” she asked quietly, swaying gently on her knees _._

“He’sss….en _gaged,_ you’re en _gaged,_ everyone’s _engaged,_ ” he answered in a sing-song voice, punctuating each statement with a carefree flip of his hand. “Alone is what I have,” he murmured, more to himself than to the woman whose face was currently centimetres away from his crotch.

Molly lunged upward suddenly, grabbing his face with one hand and turning his head until his eyes met hers.

“You are NOT alone,” she said forcefully. “Not tonight, not ever. You hear me?” she reiterated, squeezing his face for emphasis.

“Not tonight,” Sherlock parroted, bobbing his head in drunken assent. Molly grinned and dipped down to plant a wet kiss to his collarbone. “Besides,” she continued, attempting to undo his buttons before becoming frustrated with her uncoordinated fingers and ripping the shirt open, “I’m the one who got you drunk,” she chuckled. “I slipped some shots into your beer while you were too busy calculating how much time I had spent in the loo.”

“Why….whhyyy would you do that?” Sherlock groaned, and then hissed as Molly dragged her tongue down his exposed torso.

“Because, Sherlock, it’s my hen night, and I wanted to get you drunk,” she slurred against his lower abdomen. He grunted and, with what seemed like maximum effort, lifted his head and peered at her through half-lidded eyes.

“Why?” he whispered, his neck bobbing unsteadily, but his gaze blazingly sharp.

“Beecausssse…” Molly drawled, reaching into his pants and finally freeing his erection. “Because I can’t get married without ever knowing what you taste like,” she murmured, and as if to demonstrate, licked a long, slow stripe up the underside of his shaft, keeping her brown eyes locked on his blue ones all the while.

Sherlock moaned and dropped his head back to the top of the chair. Molly circled the head of his prick with her tongue, licking the precum from his slit before taking him fully into her mouth. She swung her long hair behind one shoulder to give him a completely unobstructed view as she sucked his cock slowly, tenderly. His hands scrambled for purchase on the armrests and he gaped down at her, watching her languid pace, her head sliding up and down, taking him deeper and deeper into her throat with every brilliant stroke of her tongue.

Molly could feel him begin to shake, and she sensed he was close. She abruptly pulled her mouth off his dick, causing Sherlock to growl in frustration. He stared down at her desperately, his eyes pleading with her to finish. She smiled wickedly and wrapped her small hand around his throbbing cock, stroking him several times before rising unsteadily to her feet.

Molly stood over Sherlock, her best friend in the whole world, the man who would serve as her honour attendant in her wedding next week, and slowly hiked her skirt around her waist as she climbed onto his lap.

“And I can’t get married without knowing how your cock feels in my pussy,” she whispered into his ear. “Without knowing how your face looks when you come inside of me.” Sherlock moaned helplessly as Molly rolled her hips, dragging the soaked crotch of her knickers across his heavy length.

She reached down between her legs and pulled the wet fabric off to the side with one hand as she gripped his cock with the other. She positioned him at her entrance, and very slowly, pressed her hips downward, rising up and lowering herself several times until he was fully seated inside.

They both gasped at the sensation, and stayed perfectly still for a few moments, their foreheads touching, their strangled breathing the only sounds audible in the silence of the flat. Sherlock slid his hands up the back of her thighs and gripped her arse tightly as she began to move, rocking her pelvis forward and back, his taut lower abdomen rubbing her clit with every downward stroke of her hips.

Molly’s head was spinning, and the room had become unbearable hot, but she was too far-gone to care. She leaned down and claimed Sherlock’s mouth, nipping and sucking at the lips she had stared at for all of those years. He reciprocated eagerly, pushing his tongue against hers as he slid his hands from her arse to her back, holding her tightly to his chest has he slammed his hips upward, driving his cock even more deeply into her cunt than she ever thought possible.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” she gasped against his shoulder, pushing back against his thrusts as hard as she could manage. She was so close to the edge already, all she would need was one small push. She attempted to wiggle her hand down to where their bodies were joined, but Sherlock snatched her wrist and pulled it away.

“Me. Let me,” he gasped, and quickly found her swollen clitoris with his fingers. Molly cried out loudly and pushed against his cock harder and faster as his fingertips circled her sensitive flesh, and within the minute, she was coming loudly, her broken wail echoing off the walls of 221b. She collapsed bonelessly against his chest, every muscle in her body clenching and releasing on its own accord. Sherlock moved his hands to her hips, and slammed her down three more times before groaning his release against her throat, spilling himself inside of her. He wrapped his arms around her back tightly and rode out the aftershocks of his orgasm against her limp and sweaty form.

It was several moments later when they were both disturbed by the sound of the ringing doorbell. Molly lifted her dizzy head wearily and looked at Sherlock. He opened one eye with a grimace and peered at her cautiously.

“Client,” they said in dejected unison.

And just like that, the spell had been broken. Molly leapt from the chair, perhaps a tad too fast, as she soon found her self on the floor in a woozy heap. Sherlock stumbled to his feet and tucked himself back into his trousers, buttoning his suit jacket tightly in attempt to keep his now buttonless shirt closed. In the meantime, Molly crawled to the sofa and pulled herself up, smoothing her skirt down and studiously ignoring the semen that was smeared on her upper thighs.

Sherlock shuffled over to the sofa and flopped down inelegantly next to Molly just as footsteps sounded outside the flat. “Act natural,” he mumbled in her ear. She swatted at him crossly. “You act natural,” she slurred. Then she glanced up at his face and erupted into laughter.

“What?” he snapped, his upper body weaving unsteadily.

Molly simply reached up and pulled the note that read “Sherlock Holmes” off his forehead.

“Hmph,” he replied, staring at the piece of paper in Molly’s hand. “I still think the King of England was a pretty good guess.”


End file.
